


Hungry Hearts

by trinityofone



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, Missing Scene, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 08:33:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12813696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinityofone/pseuds/trinityofone
Summary: Alternate (obvious) continuation of that scene from 1x08: “You wanna hear something funny? I’m hung like a moose.”





	Hungry Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [judgebunnie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/judgebunnie/gifts).



“Uh huh, whatever you say, _Micro_.” Frank is surprised to feel the shape of a laugh in his mouth. “You’re forgetting, man. I already saw it.”

David pauses, fingers hovering ominously over his fly. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.” His free hand scratches through his hair. “But—naked. Tied to a chair. That wasn’t exactly its best showing. Look—”

And he’s not really going to—yes he is. Frank’s reflexes are certainly swift enough to put a stop to this, but he doesn’t. He chuckles and takes another drink.

“Wait, wait—” Somehow David is reading into Frank’s reaction—or non-reaction—that he is unimpressed. Frank is, if anything, surprised—that David, who is historically full of shit, was actually representing the situation pretty fairly. He’s hung. That’s a big, thick, cut penis he’s holding. But it’s a penis. Frank, while appreciating his own, has always found penises faintly ridiculous: this thing with occasional glorious function that was otherwise grossly utilitarian or worse, like a big fucking neon sign that said, VULNERABLE HERE. There were guys in the Corps who got off or got a laugh out of whipping out their equipment at the slightest provocation, or of “playfully” goosing other guys, or even, back in basic, performing some sort of odd initiation ritual that involved punching each other in the dick. Frank, to the best of his ability, stayed well away from any of that. He knew better.

“Wait,” David says emphatically. He’s got a soft, goofy grin on his face. And he’s stroking himself. With great purpose, it seems, more than for pleasure. “See? I’m a shower _and_ a grower.”

He grins again at his own “wit.” He’s a sloppy drunk, no surprise. He’s going to regret this in the morning.

“All right, I believe you,” Frank says. He shifts his gaze away—embarrassed, pointlessly, at the thought of David’s future embarrassment. “Put that thing away.”

He hears a grunt. A soft sigh that slides into a groan. Frank knows David’s just tripped over some invisible line—pleasure has pushed past purpose. “Fuck,” David says, low and guttural. “Frank—”

Almost a challenge in the way David says his name. Frank can’t back down from that. “What?” he says, looking up again. Their eyes meet because Frank is unflinching, Frank is unafraid, and David is, of course, wasted off his skinny ass, and staring down at Frank with those eerie blue eyes of his. Who has eyes like that?

He’s still stroking himself. Barely holding himself upright: he takes a stumbling step forward to prop himself against the wall, and his hair’s a wild mess and his eyes are staring and he’s panting like he’s just run ten miles—or, in David’s case, maybe one. And his fist is moving up and down, up and down over that fat, red monster of a cock and Frank could hurt him. Frank could destroy him, so fast and so easy. He’s practically begging for it.

“Man, what are you—” Frank starts, at the same time David swallows a gulp and says, “I dunno what—”

“C’mere.” Frank’s not sure when he got to his feet, but suddenly David’s body is swaying against his body, David’s leaning into him and Frank’s hand is on his back. Frank’s other hand is curling around David’s hand. It’s wet—his cock is leaking and Frank uses their two thumbs to rub the swollen head. David lets out a shaky breath. Sighs against Frank’s throat. Frank feels fingers ghosting up the back of his neck, stroking along his scalp where the hair is fine and delicate. David lifts his own head, tilts his face up. Their lips brush. Frank freezes.

“Mm.” David makes a thoughtful noise. His eyes flutter, heavy lidded. “Too gay?”

Frank shoves him, hard, palm to shoulder. David lets go of himself but Frank keeps a firm grasp on his cock. A chair topples over. Frank can feel the reverberation of David’s back hitting the wall. His lower lip is pink and glistening; Frank wants to bite it. So he bites it.

David likes that; his hips are jackknifing, thrusting into Frank’s grip. His hands drop and Frank feels them skate over the seat of his jeans—it’s a complicated feeling, made less complicated by how long it’s been since he’s been touched. They are both dead men; they are both starved men. Given the opportunity, they should eat.

He finds himself holding David gently as he has his fill, wiping the mess on his hand across his own shirt as David shakes against him.

When David lifts his head, Frank starts to step away. The stubborn grip on his belt loop surprises him. David’s thumbs run lower, over the bulge in Frank’s jeans, where the rough fabric of the denim is hitting him in a way that hurts because it’s so, so frustratingly close to being good.

Before he can say anything, David pops open the top button of his fly. David looks almost drowsy, sinking to his knees, like he’s heading down there for a nap. He smiles a sleepy smile, more to himself than for Frank’s benefit, as his long, deft fingers make swift work of Frank’s button fly. Frank’s cock pops free, aching and vulnerable.

David sinks back on his haunches, head tilted analytically.

“Well,” he says, “you’re not quite a moose, Frank.”

“Hey—” Frank’s back stiffens. He still has come on his hand, a sticky splash of jizz on his sweat-soaked shirt.

David licks his lips. “A stag, maybe,” he says, pointing a grin up at Frank, for Frank, who steps forward again so David can grip at his thighs. “A big old buck—” David says, and then he finally stops talking.

Sloppy but intent, at this as with anything else. Tongue broad and flexible, mouth so warm and eager to please. Frank’s toes curl inside his boots. He finds himself summoning all his old tricks—breathe deep, keep control, make it last. He grabs great fistfuls of David’s wild curls. Finds himself thinking, imagining his legs were bare, that he could feel the rough burn of David’s beard against his thighs—craving all the reminders to root him in this moment, make this real, keep him in the now—

“I’m gonna—” he says, and David backs off in time to take it sloppily across the chin and down the slope of his pale neck. He swipes some away with his thumb, still looking sleepy and bizarrely satisfied. When he stands on shaky feet, Frank sees that his ridiculous moose-cock is still hanging free.

“Told you,” David says.

Frank, who has never backed down from a challenge, turns away to get a damp cloth. When he returns, David is sprawled out limply across the cot.

“No, I showed _you_ ,” Frank says, which would be a lame retort even if David were conscious to hear it.

He washes David’s sleep-smoothed face, because dried spunk’s got to be a bitch to get out of facial hair, and Frank’s not going to want to _hear_ about it.

He shivers a little as he carefully tucks away David’s penis. Different now that it’s soft in Frank’s hand. But he’s thinking too much.

The bottle’s still on the table. Frank wanders over and takes another swig. His lips feel swollen. He’s let two people kiss him today. Two people who aren’t— He tugs his soiled shirt off and tosses it in the corner. Lays a hand against the bare skin of his stomach.

Frank stays awake a long time, listening to the tender buzz of David’s snore, hungrier than ever.

**Author's Note:**

> THIS SCENE WAS SUCH A GIFT. Title is from Springsteen, as my gift to Frank.


End file.
